


I Think We Should Run

by WednesdaysDaughter



Series: From Stone to Stars [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Dragon Age Quest: The Battle of Denerim, Dragon Age Quest: The Landsmeet, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Feels, Fluff and Smut, Morrigan's ritual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-17 12:30:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14832299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WednesdaysDaughter/pseuds/WednesdaysDaughter
Summary: “I am also certain that I could not stand to lose you: To watch you take another in the name of duty.”Alistair opens his mouth to deny her accusation, but Lisbeth shakes her head with a wry smile.“I could never be queen and you would need an heir. For your people, you would let me go and it would be the right thing to do.”





	1. Restless at Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah there was no way I was gonna wait to get this posted.
> 
> I definitely plan on finishing the last chapter by Mon. The goal is to have it all posted by Wednesday if somehow everything goes right. I won't hold my breath, so neither should you. I wanna thank those of you who have been so nice & supportive of my first DA fic. I was beyond nervous. You're all the best!

Growing up the princess of Orzammar had prepared Lisbeth for a multitude of trials.

She could spit political fire with the best, and worst, of them which was probably why so many in the assembly favored her over her brothers. Her daggers cut as sharp as her tongue, but were used in defense as much as offence; the family shield too bulky to drag around sat in the corner of her temporary quarters wherever she went.

The high caste scoffed whenever she stopped to empty her coin purse in Dust Town and the Hall of Heroes. Lisbeth paid them no mind and eventually they lost interest in her affairs and started wars within their own houses to amuse themselves.

Her mother once said she had a spine of iron with the grace of flowing lava; beautiful and deadly.

“You could charm a noble into rolling around the dirt to gain your favor my dear,” she mused one night they shared before her death, “and those not swayed by honey could be cowed by your warrior’s spirit.”

Lisbeth often wondered if she would’ve been exiled if her mother had lived.

Despite her experiences nothing beneath the mountain could prepare her for the challenges the Blight brought forth in matters concerning state and heart.

When people talk about the Landsmeet in weeks to come they will talk about the cold, calculating look in her eyes as she and Loghain circled each other like animals in the wild. They’ll spin eager tales of her savage blows and righteous furry that saw justice done. No one would believe that she stepped aside to let someone else deliver the killing blow until the truth of Alistair’s parentage was exposed.

It only made sense that Maric’s bastard son would seek revenge.

What will not be told, however, is how the famed Hero of Ferelden made a string of selfish decisions whose effect would be felt in the land for years to come.

The catalyst, of course, being the moment Duncan pulled her from the Deep Roads.

Even though Harrowmont said he believed she had not committed fratricide, it was Duncan who truly meant it. After being cleansed by the storm that accompanied them to Ostagar, Lisbeth felt as if something inside of her had mutated – shifted and made way for the Grey Warden, leaving the Princess behind. Whispers followed her around camp, many made in disbelief when they took in her bare feet and shoddy armor.

“If that’s how the dwarves treat their royalty I’m glad they keep to their mountain.”

Lisbeth burned with the desire to correct their uncultured opinions of her people, but she didn’t want to explain how she had been forced from Orzammar either so she let them gossip and pretended not to hear. Duncan’s eyes spoke of embarrassment which then quickly shifted to exasperation when she’d finally corralled Alistair.

‘ _What an odd human_ ,’ had been her first thought followed quickly by, ‘ _Uh-oh_ ’ when he smiled at her.

Alistair made her laugh when levity felt like a dream from another life. Besides Duncan and Wynne he was the only one who didn’t partake in hushed murmurs when she walked by and instead seemed to be in awe of her prowess in the Wilds.

Her fascination with her fellow Warden dispelled quickly in the flames of battle and stayed far from her mind until she awoke in Morrigan’s bed to find she had been spared a grisly fate, unlike King Cailan and Duncan. Ostagar was lost, but she and Alistair were not.

Revenge was something Lisbeth understood intimately and swore to him as they set out for Lothering that Loghain would pay for his betrayal. He stopped and studied her before his lips thinned and his nod of determination set in motion a chain of events neither of them could have predicted. His trust in her was the beginning and Lisbeth feared the Landsmeet was an end.

“I offer my support to Queen Anora.”

Alistair’s relieved smile stays with her well into the night along with the disappointed frown of Arl Eamon. The former outweighs the latter, but Lisbeth’s gut twists in guilt and sleep avoids her – forcing her to seek refuge elsewhere in the Arl’s estate.

It’s no surprise that Leliana is waiting for her by the fireplace and she sits in silence until it becomes too much.

“Did I make the right choice in supporting Anora?”

“I believe so,” Leliana begins, “but perhaps that is not the answer you wish to hear.”

Lisbeth sighs, running a tired hand over her face until it rests beneath her chin, propping up her face so she can look at her friend.  

“I will be the first to admit my curiosity as to your choice,” Morrigan chimes in from the shadows.

“But I will also commend your decision to spare this country of Alistair’s questionable rule.”

“He’d make a great King!” Lisbeth snarls in defence, but Morrigan continues to stare unimpressed with her bark until the fight leaves Lisbeth more exhausted than before.

“If you truly felt as such then you would have supported his claim to the throne as Eamon intended.”

“If you feel this way then why did name Anora?”

Lisbeth doesn’t want to answer Leliana’s question, but the words come unbidden from her bitten lips; gnawed and sore from days of deliberation.

“So I wouldn’t lose him.”

The cackling fire fills the silence that follows her admission and she can practically feel the sympathy from Leliana and the displeasure, albeit less intense than it had been in the beginning, from Morrigan. There’s no better way to explain her thought process at the end of the day and admitting she decided the fate of Ferelden because of her affections feels more like failing than it has a right to.

Her whole life she had fought against expectations and took little for herself outside the satisfaction of battle. Lisbeth would not cringe from her decision knowing they could die at the Archdemon’s claws in a day’s time.

“If I had made Alistair king our relationship would’ve ended in the name of duty. I’ve seen what that can do to people when a sacrifice like that is made. Part of me would have understood…” Lisbeth trails off as an alternate future plays before her eyes. She can feel the phantom pains of heartbreak as he leaves her to face his future bride and the air in the room grows heavy.

“But a larger part of you would not have,” Leliana finishes while laying a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Sniffling, Lisbeth nods miserably and curses the stone for her weakness. Who is she to command such a thing? Who is she to deny the country its rightful leader by blood because her heart would be shattered?

‘ _Mother, what would you think of me now_?’ she ponders darkly.

“Wallowing in pity will accomplish nothing.”

Lisbeth turns to give Morrigan a sound talking to, but the look in her eyes stops her short. Morrigan’s eyes are calculating, as always, but her usual icy stare has melted into tepid depths disarming Lisbeth’s attack.

“Your choice is made. I’d say you aren’t alone in your inner turmoil if the shadow in the doorway is anything to go by.”

Lisbeth turns in time to see the figure take a few steps backwards until Morrigan snaps and regains her disdain.

“I’ll hide spiders in your bed if you don’t come out here right now and settle this. Such things are not good to let fester so close to the final battle.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Alistair’s voice cracks in fear and Lisbeth doesn’t need to look to see the satisfied smirk on Morrigan’s face.

“Oh wouldn’t I?”

Leliana lays her hands out in an attempt to pacify them both and her words sooth the ruffled feathers long enough for Alistair to take her place at Lisbeth’s side. She and Morrigan melt into the background until they are alone and Lisbeth can’t find it in her to look at him.

She’s not fool enough to think he didn’t hear the whole thing. From day one he had admitted how much he didn’t want the throne, but she could see his potential as brightly as she could see the fire in front of her. Though doubtful, the possibility that he might resent her choice in the future was real enough in Lisbeth’s head that she gnawed her lip until he reached down to soothe the offence.

“Has this been troubling you since we came to Denerim?”

His voice is soft, understanding; she turns her face into his hand and her lip catches on a callus as she jerks her head.

“Lisbeth,” he exhales before joining her on the hearth where his arm wraps around her waist and his eyes catch hers, “love, why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“Because I knew how you already felt about this whole mess,” she gestures to the empty room and lets her hands fall on his thigh, grasping the fabric as if to stop him from leaving. “It all seems so silly.”

“Did you think about it? Eamon seemed pretty sure you were going to put me on the throne.”

Lisbeth has a hard time placing his tone, but she has only ever been honest with him even when it hurt.

“Yes.”

He hums and Lisbeth can feel sleep calling to her with every caress of his thumb along her side. Hesitantly, she leans forward until she’s resting on his shoulder and she wonders if he can feel her melt once he pulls her closer.

She continues to speak when it becomes apparent he will not do so.

“I know you don’t want the throne – it’s not a secret. I’ve found that in the life of royalty rarely do we get what we want. You may not believe it, but I know you’d be a great King. I can see it when you fight and when you speak to those who need help. It’s your compassion Alistair that would aid Ferelden in its darkest times of that I’m certain.”

She pulls back, needing to see his face when she admits what she’d been fighting since their first kiss weeks ago.

“I am also certain that I could not stand to lose you: To watch you take another in the name of duty.”

Alistair opens his mouth to deny her accusation, but Lisbeth shakes her head with a wry smile.

“I could never be queen and you would need an heir. For your people, you would let me go and it would be the right thing to do.”

It hurts when he looks away because she’s seen that outcome in her nightmares and it was something they avoided talking about at camp out of blind hope and foolishness. Wynne’s warning plays in loop in the back of Lisbeth’s head – though her recent blessing works hard to drown the doubts.

Lisbeth reaches up and cups his chin until they’re inches apart, lips aching to touch and eyes dark with desire.

“I was cast from my home for going along with the right thing and I’ll be damned to the depths of molten stone if I let you go after everything we’ve been through.”

Speechless, Alistair surges forward stealing her breath and pouring his love into her mouth until he’s dizzy with it. Trembling, his hands cup her face, caressing the tattoos that bracket her soft cheeks. Trading hums and delicate caresses Lisbeth loses herself in the moment until her lungs begin to protest from lack of air. Alistair chases her lips and peppers her face until she’s a mess of giggles.

“I love you,” he whispers between feather light pecks, “so much.”

“And I you,” Lisbeth affirms, knocking their noses together and settling her forehead against his in hopes of calming her racing pulse.

The moment stretches on until Alistair’s attempt to hold back a yawn fails miserably; his sheepish smile contributing to the rouge dusting on his golden cheeks.  

“We have a big day tomorrow, we should turn in.”

He sighs, “I suppose you’re right.”

They make their way slowly to the end of the fort, feet dragging and bodies swaying so they knock into each other while holding hands. Lisbeth prepares to part once they come to the secondary hall, but Alistair tightens his grip and pulls her towards his room to the left.

Lisbeth jerks back - her brow quirked in curiosity when Alistair just shrugs and continues to tug on her arm.

“I feel bad sneaking into your room like a thief in the night. We never had to do that on the road.”

Lisbeth’s heart melts a little at his sincerity and suddenly misses the freedom the circle of tents provided. She had understood initially when Eamon presented them with separate rooms, but they’d been walking on eggshells since entering Denerim – being sure not to touch or stare too long.

Shame was not the name of the game, by any means, but it was awkward nonetheless when Eamon popped up whenever they were alone. He’d had his eye on the throne and lacked subtly: Attempting to construct barriers between Alistair and Lisbeth to prepare for what he had though was inevitable.

They were happy to prove him wrong.

“It won’t be forever,” Lisbeth soothes when Alistair closes his door behind them. The thud of the door reminds her of their first night in Orzammar when she’d dragged him to her room without a backwards glance to the inn keeper’s wife who stuttered in shock when her delegation had been disrupted.

Harrowmont hadn’t even attempted to offer them separate rooms, which had amused Lisbeth to no end when Alistair’s blush had lasted well into the night.  

“You’re right,” he purrs, pulling her close while slowly walking towards the bed, “that nonsense ends tonight.”

A shriek of delight is pulled from Lisbeth when he suddenly pulls her up, her legs locking automatically around his waist, and lays her on the cool sheets. She moans into his mouth as he rocks forwards, desperate to ease the ache echoed in her body. Hands locked in his hair, daring him to move his mouth from hers; Lisbeth sucks on his bottom lip until he whines.

“Maker,” he swears when he’s free to roam her neck – gently sucking along her collarbone while sliding his hands beneath her white tunic. Time ceases to have meaning and when morning finally comes, bringing with it incessant knocks on the door, Lisbeth scowls and answers the door draped in Alistair’s night shirt. Her threatening image is dulled only slightly by her attire and Eamon’s eyes nearly pop out of his head when she greets him instead of Alistair.

“Beg pardon Warden, perhaps I got the rooms mixed up,” he begins but is cut short by Alistair’s loud groan followed by the loud thud of him toppling out of bed.

“Andraste’s flaming tits that hurt!”

Lisbeth is barely able to withhold her amused snort and closes her eyes briefly to collect herself. The sound of a goblet crashing onto stone and another colorful swear from Alistair’s mouth nearly undoes all her effort. Eamon looks ill, but manages to wipe his face of emotion when Alistair pulls the door open wider to lean on it. Clearly not fully awake, he makes no move to cover his bare chest where everyone can see the results of a long night spent indulging in pleasant company.

Later as they dress, he’ll blush brighter than the red poppies blooming outside the gates when he notices her possessive markings and she’ll tease him on the way out of Denerim until she recalls the bruises along her décolletage.

“We march in an hour for Redcliffe,” is all Eamon says before leaving Lisbeth to her suppressed laughter.

“Guess we should rally our merry band then?”

Alistair runs a hand through his hair, making the strands stuck up even more, and her fondness for him strikes right between her ribs and all Lisbeth can do is nod. They dress quickly and neither one are surprised to find Wynne herding the others towards the front gate. Oghren grumbles the whole way and Zevran winks when he notices how close she and Alistair are walking.

“I take it last night went well?” Leliana probes after Alistair and Sten take point, leading the others out of the city.

“Very well if the bounce in Alistair’s step is any indication,” Morrigan rolls her eyes when Lisbeth preens.

“And look how proudly you strut; surely there will be no more fits of pity.”

Alistair chooses that moment to look back blatantly ignoring the filth spewing from Oghren’s mouth and smiles when their eyes meet. Lisbeth still has reservations about whether or not she did the right thing for Ferelden, but the love shining in Alistair’s eyes solidifies the belief that she did the right thing for them.

“No more doubts,” Lisbeth confirms.

‘ _For now, at least_.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thrive on angst y'all. If you've read any of my other fic you know this by now. Chapter 2 is gonna be even better *cough* worse *cough* so bear with me.


	2. The Fire Is Coming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no chill. 
> 
> If it's written, why wait right? This is also my favorite chapter so I couldn't wait to get it posted.

She wishes the screaming would stop.

 

The wall is frigid beneath her back; mind blank from the rush of information that hasn’t stopped since they reached Redcliffe. Her internal protesting grows so loud she nearly clamps her hands over her ears though the hallway itself is dead quiet. Hadn’t she just made this decision? Hadn’t she just decided Alistair’s fate five days ago for what she assumed was the first and last time? Lisbeth closes her eyes and fights the hot sting of tears before pushing away from the wall.

 

She wishes the fretting would stop.

 

Morrigan stands in front of the fire well aware that Lisbeth has not moved from her spot in the hallway though she shut the door when she left.

‘ _I don’t not envy you my friend_ ,’ she thinks bitterly and waits for Lisbeth to make a decision. Her mind does not replay the way Lisbeth’s blood drained from her face when Morrigan told her of the ritual. She does not recall with perfect clarity the hitch in Lisbeth’s breath when Morrigan listed all the reasons to go through with the ritual. The golden mirror stashed in her bag weighs more than it did that morning.

 

He wishes the shaking would stop.

 

From the moment Riordan opened his mouth dread had been gathering in Alistair’s gut. Suddenly the little nuances of Duncan’s actions started to make sense. He had been planning to make the final blow – there is no doubt – and now Lisbeth has declared her final act without hesitation.

“I will kill the Archdemon.”

Stunned to his core, Alistair had opened his mouth to negate her claim but Riordan beat him to it. Since then he has been unable to sit still; restless energy bounding through his body, which had only gotten worse when he noticed Morrigan lurking around Lisbeth’s room. Nothing good can come of this night, of that Alistair was sure.

 

‘ _He’s going to hate me_.’

The stray thought nearly brings her to her knees, but Lisbeth powers through the dread coiling in her gut. There is no way she was going to let him die and once more she is letting her desires drive her actions: She doesn’t want to die either.

If she were able, she’d pay the price a thousand times – but she lacked the parts and asking such a thing of Alistair made acid burn the back of her throat. It was either this, or death – whether it was worse than the betrayal Lisbeth is certain Alistair will hurl at her feet she does not know. He deserves a choice, he always has, but in this she will not bend.

Lisbeth has seen enough to know better than to place her trust in one man to accomplish a monumental task. Morrigan, however, she does trust even if she doesn’t feel worthy of such a thing.

He’s waiting for her, pacing the length of the floor as if the stone would give under his feet. His smile slides off his face when he takes in her pallor; an apparition – an omen of things to come. Heart heavy, Lisbeth steels herself and squares her shoulders.

“I see you can’t sleep either,” he attempts to lighten the oppressive atmosphere but as he rambles on Lisbeth starts to lose her nerve.

“You can’t sleep? Are you alright?”

She knows better and he says as much at her lackluster attempt at distraction. It stings, but it reminds her why she’s here.

“We need to talk.”

Alistair leans against his four-post bed and crosses his arms, “And here I thought that by giving up the crown my responsibilities would cease to exist. Well, besides the Archdemon of course.”

“Let me have it then, have the people decided to start a coup?”

Lisbeth wants to laugh, her sharp exhale of amusement helps Alistair relax his stance until she speaks up, “I love you. You know that right?”

It sounds like a goodbye.

“That’s not ominous at all,” he huffs trying to hold back his fear from making him say something stupid like, “Sod this – let’s run away together!” or “I swear by the Maker if you leave me I’ll lose my mind.”

He holds his tongue and stares at her until she caves, “I need you to do something you won’t like.”

“I don’t care for the sound of that,” the frown on Alistair’s face looks as if it’s permanently etched on his face, “What are we talking about exactly?”

Lisbeth fiddles with her hands, wringing her fingers; a habit she broke years ago beneath the exasperated eyes of her mother. “Never let your enemies know you’re afraid, they’ll never let your forget it.”

Alistair wasn’t the enemy here, she was.

“You need to…” she stops to swallow the lump in her throat, “you need to sleep with Morrigan as part of a magic ritual.”

A pause and then laughter fills the room. He pretends to wipe a tear from his eye, “Cute.”

“This is payback right? For all the jokes?”

She wants so badly for it to be true; wants the sharp pain beneath her breast to vanish as if it never existed. Lisbeth is tempted for a half-second to play along, but his life means more than anything right now. It doesn’t take long for him to realize she’s not pulling his leg and the mood changes as quickly as it came.

“But… you’re not joking. You’re actually serious!”

He pushes off the post and stalks to the wall and back half-mad, half-delirious, “Wow! Be killed by the Archdemon or sleep with Morrigan? How does some make that kind of choice?”

Lisbeth wants to scream, wants to shake him for making light of something so severe, but she holds back – just barely.

“You’re not actually asking me this, are you? What kind of ritual is this anyway?”

Lisbeth is blunt, “I won’t lie to you Alistair – the ritual will produce a child.”

His stuttered reply fills her with self-loathing and the desire to reach out and soothe him is so strong she clasps her hands behind her back.

“I must be hearing things, but are you telling me to impregnate Morrigan in some kind of magical sex rite?”

Alistair’s voice cracks as he sputters questions at Lisbeth revolving around Morrigan’s intentions and those are answers she doesn’t have; not fully. Mentioning the Old God adds fuel to his hysteria until she’s left standing alone and he collapses in a chair.

“Is this really what you want me to do? Are you sure?”

‘ _No_!’ she yells internally, ‘ _Of course not_!’

That is not what he needs to hear right now: Later when it’s done she’ll break down and ask forgiveness, but in this moment she needs him to listen. She steadies herself and lowers her voice as if speaking to a cornered animal.

“I need you to trust me.”

The fight leaves his body and Lisbeth wishes he would get up and demand more from her. She wields his feelings for her like a weapon and knows this could end everything she’d been trying so hard to save in Denerim.

“Trust you?” he asks softly, “very well. I do trust you.”

His acceptance feels like surrender and they don’t speak on the way back to her room where Morrigan is waiting. Lisbeth barely hears their conversation, eyes focused on the floor to hide her bitter tears. She’ll cry when she’s alone – by the stone no one will see her like this. Morrigan mentions something along the lines of Alistair not hating their night together and Lisbeth wants to stab something.

She stands facing the fire as they leave, not able to look either of them in the eyes though she feels Alistair’s on her back before he sighs and leaves.

The silence is deafening.

 

She wishes the crying would stop.

 

When it finally does Lisbeth feels empty.

The tears won’t come anymore, she has nothing left to give except the occasional sniffle and wince when the pounding in her head gets to be too much. Her whole body aches from curling into a tight ball on the stone floor. Her knuckles bare bite marks from when her sobs threatened to grow too loud and uncontrolled.

‘ _What would my brothers say if they could see me now_?’

Lisbeth left that part of her life to die in the Deep Roads, but she can imagine with perfect clarity the embarrassment and shame on their faces if they’d witnessed such a fit over a human. Aeducan’s did not cry – they fought and bled and died with honor, supposedly. Even if they had made the foolish mistake to fall in love, it would not have defeated them so thoroughly.

She longs for her mother.

There’s a scratching at her door so Lisbeth stretches out and lets Gimli in. He’d been at her door whining since Alistair left with Morrigan and he nearly knocks her down in joy when he sees her face. Shaky, Lisbeth bends down and wraps her arms around the mutt. He stands still and lets her dry the trails of tears on her face in his fur.

“Good boy,” she praises and he licks her from chin to forehead.

Her laughter is thick and it causes her headache to surge until she can’t stand the fire’s light. There’s a ringing in her ears, but thankfully Gimli keeps his barks to himself until Lisbeth can stand external stimuli once again. She sways on her feet, but finds her bearings long enough to find her night clothes. She won’t get but a handful of hours of sleep if she attempts it now and even though it’s the furthest thing from her mind, she needs to try.

Whether the ritual works or not, she’s going to plunge her sword into the Archdemon and feel the last breath leave its body.

She can’t do that if she’s falling asleep on the battlefield.

Gimli whines at her feet, eyes jumping from the bed to her face once she’s cleaned up. Rolling her eyes, Lisbeth pats the bed and he barks joyfully. He settles at the foot of the bed, eyes locked on the door as if he’s expecting someone.

Lisbeth doesn’t think about the fact it’s the first night in weeks she’ll be sleeping alone – she doesn’t think about how nice it felt when Alistair wrapped his body around hers. Not thinking about it leads to thinking about it and she shakes silently until sleep gives her no choice.

She wakes up warm.

Her first thought is that Gimli snuck up the bed and it’s his body slumped next to hers. It’s not until she stretches and feels a heavy mass just below her feet that she freezes and notices the arm tossed possessively over her hip.

‘ _I must be dreaming_ ,’ she thinks desperately because the reality of it might just make her start crying again and she doesn’t think her pride can take that.

“Morrigan lied,” Alistair mumbles into her golden locks, “I hated every second of it.”

He pulls their bodies closer and nuzzles into the back of her neck, “I closed my eyes, and thought of you and then it was over. Funnily enough, she wouldn’t let me leave until she had told me – in no uncertain terms – that this was the only way to save you.”

Lisbeth lets him talk, basking in the sound of his voice and the feel of his lips against her skin. It doesn’t feel like the end of anything, but rather a pass: Forgiveness.

“If I hadn’t gone through with it, would you have taken me with you? To slay the Archdemon?”

Her breath catches and she can’t speak so Lisbeth shakes her head vigorously until Alistair’s turning her around to face him. Their eyes speak volumes of heartbreak; giving the emotion a mirror too clear to ignore.

“You would’ve left me?”

“I would’ve died for you.”

She can see her words hit him with the force of Oghren’s axe and his face crumbles, arms pulling her into his chest where he holds her so close she might just sink into his ribcage and never leave.

“Lisbeth,” his broken whisper punctures her heart and she shushes his wounded slurring; hands running up and down his back while her lips brush his clammy skin.

“I can’t…” he starts pulling back far enough to hold her face with shaky hands, “I can’t do this anymore.”

 

She feels her heart stop beating.

 

The panic in her eyes sets Alistair in motion, “No, no, no my love that’s… that’s not what I meant. Breathe Lisbeth, breathe.”

She does.

“I meant the part where you make all the decisions without my input: The part where you decide what’s best for me while you tear yourself to bits.”

His eyes are red as if he’d been crying as much as she had.

“The part where you think your life weighs less than mine; Lisbeth you have to stop thinking like that.”

She’s hearing what he’s saying and she wants to argue but he swallows her protest with his lips until they’re panting and moaning in turns. Desperation lights a fire in her blood and she yanks, distantly noting the sound of tearing fabric, until they’re bare and his hands are like lava against her skin. Her name a mantra falling so prettily from his lips as if it were the only thing he was meant to say: Lisbeth rolls him over until she’s straddling his hips.

“Alistair,” is all she can say before she lines them up and sinks down taking every inch and the ache explodes like a star in her until he’s leaving bruises on her hips.

She wants to wear his fingerprints until the stone calls her home.

Wild, she rises and falls until the world narrows to the point where their bodies are joined. She reaches down to touch where they come together and his moan is liquid iron running down her spine until she’s on fire.

“My love,” he gulps breathless and desperate, “oh my heart.”

Tears sting her eyes; Alistair’s hand comes up to brush them from her cheek. She catches his hand before it falls and presses tender kisses into his palm before sliding his fingers into her mouth.

His hips jerk and she’s falling and expanding and more than she’s ever been before. She comes back gently and in stages; the first being the feeling of him slowly sliding out of her – the last being the way he says he loves her as if speaking to the Maker himself.

Lisbeth gathers enough strength to crawl up his boneless frame and props herself up where she can study his blissful smile.

“Together then,” she promises.

Every choice, every decision, every action that could affect their lives will be made as equals; together in all things.

His eyes swim as she leans down to seal it with a devoted kiss.

“Together.”

 

He wishes that daylight would never come.

 

She looks serene when she sleeps. The weight of the Blight cast off when sleep comes by; her hair undone and past her shoulders instead of twirled high in the tight bun. Every second spent staring at her is a second Alistair will cherish until the Calling, and even then he’ll dream of her in the Fade.

He made a promise to himself when he crawled into her bed that he would let go of his initial anger and talk about it like an adult. The first part was as easy as breathing – he understood why she had urged him to undergo the ritual. The second part was sort of derailed when she slid down his chest, but their bodies were always better at having a conversation anyway.

Lisbeth wrinkles her nose and he knows she’s not far from the waking world.

At some point Gimli had taken a post in front of the hearth and had not attempted to hop back onto the bed. Alistair made a mental note to get him a juicy steak before they left Redcliffe. He tips his head and nudges Lisbeth’s shoulder with his nose, pressing a slow kiss over a bruise he doesn’t remember making.

“Pretty sure the bandits in Denerim did that one,” she croaks.

Alistair glowers at the blemish before licking her skin. He sets to cover it with a mark of his own, and Lisbeth squirms under him.

“Don’t start something you don’t intend to finish,” she whines, pushing his head away from her shoulder.

“I’ve never been one to leave a job half done you know.” Alistair smirks when her eyes go wide and follow the trail his tongue traces over her left breast, stopping for a quick suck on her nipple, and down past the sheet she’d gotten tangled in.

Her thighs shake with each kiss and nibble he plants until she’s writhing and begging and holding his head right where she wants it. He hums into her warmth; tongue tracing familiar patterns around her cunt that make her gasp and tremble as if she’s falling to pieces. He wants to finish with her taste in his mouth and quickens his pace; flicking and sucking until she’s an incoherent mess of half-sobbed pleas for release.

He works himself in time with the spasm of her hips, determined to catch up. He tilts his head up and works his nose into that buddle of nerves and he drowns in her cries of pleasure and follows shortly after. He works his tongue lazily to clean her up until she’s too sensitive and he grunts as if she’s punched him when she takes his hand and returns the gesture.

“Sweet, merciful Andraste,” he pants against her abdomen as she cards her hand through his hair, “I don’t think I can move.”

“That’s a shame since there’s a Blight and all. Guess Oghren will take all the glory when he slays the Archdemon.”

He snorts, “I think you underestimate Leliana’s desire for fame my dear. She’ll be at the forefront of that slaughter.”

Lisbeth’s laugh triggers his own and soon they’re panting in a different manner which must signal to the outside world that they’re ready for the new day.

“If you’re awake enough to laugh like buffoons you’re awake enough to get dressed. There is a Blight to end in case you’ve forgotten.”

Morrigan’s voice outside the door does little to spoil the mood, but Alistair still hides his face in Lisbeth’s stomach, only peaking up when she pulls gently at his hair.

“It’s alright love,” she assures, “we’ll endure.”

“Always,” he swears with a swift kiss to her swollen lips.

Her answering smile is brighter than the sun beating down on backs of the armies they’ve gathered in the past months. It makes Alistair believe they can win this and come out on the other side, alive and united. They dress and he watches her wipe down Duncan’s dagger with care before sheathing it; her face alight with purpose.

“Let’s go kill some Darkspawn,” she grins, Gimli barking in agreement before racing out the door and down the hall. His enthusiasm is catchy, feeding a spark deep inside Alistair that’s survived so much already. Reaching out, he takes Lisbeth’s hand and pushes all the love he can down though his finger tips until he knows she can feel it.

“Together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not written a sex scene in YEARS! Not since I was balls deep in my foray into real-person fanfic. My Livejournal was nothing but Pinto smut and I'm partially embarrassed and proud. This was just a little harmless trial, but I'm pretty pleased with how it all turned out.
> 
> I'm almsot done with the last chapter. Most likely it'll be up tomorrow night!


	3. Keep Each Other As Safe As We Can

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the fastest I've posted & finished a multi-chapter fic. Feeling pretty awesome right now. I should probably go and finish my Star Trek fic that's taken me almost a year to write....

For a split second, time freezes and she sees him crawl over the fallen darkspawn as if he can reach her before the blast.

 

Lisbeth can feel her blood pouring from the wounds that’d been accumulating from the second they breached Denerim. Wynne had offered to heal the initial ones, but Lisbeth declined.

“Save your strength for your battle here Wynne. Hold the line.”

“I’d like to see those bastards get past her,” Oghren leered, “she’s got life enough left in those bones to kill two hoards.”

“Thank you Oghren.”

Shaking her head, Lisbeth turned to address those who would guard the gates. She’d never been good at farewells; trained to lead men to victory, but concession speeches weren’t in the dwarven vocabulary. The parting left a sour taste in her mouth though she did not look back.

“We are with you,” Leliana promised with a brief hug before loading her new bow: A gift from Lisbeth.

Shale and Sten’s perfunctory  goodbyes made her feel better; less like she was leaving them to certain death and more like she was going into town for eggs.

“Give him a good stabbing for me.”

Zevran’s request was met with an affectionate eye-roll that turned into the clasping of forearms. She would’ve taken them all if she could.

The heart-to-heart with Oghren had left her bewildered once she’d realized he wasn’t speaking from the bottom of a bottle. A sip here and there, sure: They were about to end the Blight after all. The genuine emotion he displayed as he called upon their ancestors transported Lisbeth briefly back home long enough to say goodbye.

“I consider it a fine honor to die for you and your cause.”

She reaches out to punch him hard, “No one is dying here today Oghren.”

He laughs, rubbing his shoulder and growls in agreement.

“You got that right Warden. Let’s make the stone run red with our enemies’ blood. We’ll show them the grit of Orzammar!”

Hunger pumping in her veins, Lisbeth roars back and they turn to spit on the dirt over their shoulder and clasp hands; squeezing until Oghren eventually gives. He shares his flask long enough for her to take a swig as the Arl’s men line up and cheer them on.

Her exchange with Alistair stays fresh in the back of her mind and when Morrigan stands to her left she reaches out, but stops before she can take her hand. Morrigan stares before slowly meeting Lisbeth halfway. The hold is brief, Lisbeth not wanting to make Morrigan uncomfortable, but the contact says more than their words ever could.

She is going to miss her friend dearly.

They fight through the markets and stay long enough to ensure the Alienage will endure. She calls the dwarves to their side before they reach the tower and they follow like bloodthirsty shadows, slaying anything that gets too close. She gets an arrow in her right thigh and turns to see Alistair strike the offending darkspawn down in rage.

His training with Oghren shines through every vicious slash and wild grunt. While not the perfect time, Lisbeth shifts in her armor to deal with the concoction of adrenaline and lust rushing through her veins. She doesn’t fool Oghren one bit and he spends his moments between axe swings making lewd comments at her back. Lisbeth just laughs when she catches the dumbstruck look on Alistair’s face once he realizes what’s being implied.

“Oh I wish the darkspawn would take you all,” Morrigan huffs in irritation.

They’re quickly swarmed on the next floor and all focus shifts to surviving the onslaught. With every foe that falls at her feet, four more spring up. Eventually it becomes enough for Morrigan to lose her patience and she grunts, thrusting her staff into the air and a dark cloud sweeps before them; dropping the darkspawn like rocks in their tracks. She steps over their corpses without pause and does not wait for them to catch up.

“She is on our side right?” Oghren whispers as they climb the stairs to the next floor.

Alistair snorts, “I’ve been trying to figure that one out since we met.”

Lisbeth ignores their banter in favor of slicing a hidden gunlock in half with her daggers. She’s met with impressed silence and the weight of Alistair’s eyes locked south of her shoulders. Smirking in satisfaction, Lisbeth catches up with Morrigan and throws herself at the Emissaries guarding the door.

By the time they’ve made it to the top, Lisbeth has collected three new wounds that if not treated quickly could potentially leave her unconscious. She rips the bottom of her tunic to create a tourniquet for the laceration on her left arm; dangerously close to her wrist where the blood is pumping fiercely. Oghren and Alistair are just as mangled and perform their own brands of battlefield triage since Morrigan’s saving the rest of her mana for the Archdemon.

Panting, Lisbeth turns and looks them in the eyes, smiling the whole time before she throws the doors open and charges forward. Alistair is hot on her heels; Oghren’s battle cry overtaking the furious crows from darkspawn surrounding the Archdemon. The remaining forces of Orzammar are joined by mages from the Circle.

Some of them scatter and take ahold of the large ballista’s; launching arrows until they penetrate the dragon's thick hide.

After the heat of battle has passed Lisbeth will remember little of what happens next. Lightning falls from the sky, clearing a path to the Archdemon who is surrounded by the remainder of her great army. She nearly stumbles over the body of a mage, but Oghren rushes past and pulls her over the obstacle until she’s steady on her feet.

Lisbeth will later recall the blood flying off his battle-axe with every frenzied swing. Morrigan’s voice will forever be etched in the back of her mind; shouting orders at the other mages until a great ball of hellfire engulfs the Archdemon: Its shrieks the last thing she’ll hear before unconsciousness takes her hostage.

She turns in time, throwing her dagger and stopping an Alpha dead in its tracks before it could get the drop on Alistair.

Her vision blurs and he blends into the background – she misses the archer just out of sight, but she watches the arrow pierce his shoulder. She doesn’t have time to shout. Oghren rushes over, motioning with his hands for her to keep going.

“You kill that nug-humping son of a whore Warden! I’ll get your boy.”

Strength leaking from her body, Lisbeth obeys and pushes through the pain in time to see the Archdemon keel over, tail flicking over bodies as it tries to gather stamina enough to fly. Without thought she reaches down to take an abandoned sword; larger than what she’s used to using but sturdy with promise to finish the job. She thinks she hears Alistair call her name, but she slides beneath the underbelly and lifts the sword into the Archdemon’s gut.

Blood rains down.

Lisbeth spares no thought of the mixing fluids; a little more taint isn’t going to kill her now.

Something slams into her right shoulder – it takes her a minute to realize it’s an arrow leased too late as she stands above the Archdemon’s head. Black eyes stare into the very core of her and that’s when she sees him, crawling across the battlefield to get to her. He’s not going to make it and she decides it’s for the best.

Her final goodbye is silent, but Alistair hears it all the same.

Lisbeth looks away and slams the sword into the Archdemon’s skull and knows nothing but green light. Alistair does not catch her before she falls, but he holds her all the way back to Wynne; mumbling over and over again under his breath, “Please don’t leave me.”

 

She sleeps for eighteen hours.

 

The first thing she sees is Gimli chewing on the wooden feet of her bedtable. The room is empty, though she can see the indent in the sheets next to her right arm – bandaged and secured in a sling – where she knows Alistair has been resting.

“Bad dog,” she slurs and is back under before his bark can alert anyone.

The next thing she sees is Leliana carrying a bowl of warm water to the door. She’s humming one of the songs she picked up on the road; a lovely retelling of an old dwarven drinking song Lisbeth and Oghren had patched together one night.

“Thank you,” she whispers and allows herself to sink back into the black after hearing Leliana’s sharp exclamation.

Bits and pieces of random conversations flit into her dreams and finally her body has decided it’s healed enough. The last thing she sees before she’s swarmed with well-wishers is Alistair. He’s propped up against the headboard and running a comb through her hair. Content to listen to his voice while he recalls an amusing tale of Chantry life, Lisbeth silently takes stalk of her injuries and deems herself well enough to get out of bed. When she eventually looks up he does not seem surprised that she is awake.

“Hello there sleeping beauty.”

Lisbeth aches all over, but she reaches up with her good hand and sighs in pleasure when he catches it and kisses her palm. The relief is instantaneous, the tears flowing unchecked down her bruised cheeks. He joins her, curling around her body as if a shield from the monster’s long dead. Mindful of her wounds, Alistair’s hands flit over her shoulders as he shakes apart. They check for signs of life; signs they are not trapped in a dream.

His name falls softly from her lips and when they finally kiss Lisbeth realizes that no dream, no demon, would ever be able to mimic the feel of his lips and that familiar whimper he’s never been able to withhold.

“You should see the other guy,” she jokes.

Alistair’s choked laugh gives the all clear and her door is thrown open; bodies tumbling over each other in a race to her bedside.

“Well it’s about damn time…” Oghren grouses, eyes suspiciously red and Lisbeth can’t even formulate a response before Wynne’s knocking her staff on the floor to establish order. The commotion dies down though Leliana is the only one who looks contrite after being scolded. Alistair is the last to leave the room so Wynne can check her bandages, but she can feel it when he stops outside the door and stands resolute.

It takes her some time to get into her armor and Wynne is exceptionally patient as Lisbeth swears and sweats through the ordeal. By the time she’s ready to meet Anora her friends have gathered along the hallway. Alistair offers her his hand, “Are you ready to meet your adoring public?”

Lisbeth rather not, and they all know it by the snickers that dart down the line, but she takes a breath and tells him to lead on. She had kept them waiting long enough.

 

\- - - - - - - - - -

 

The ceremony goes better than expected.

Anora granted her a boon and Lisbeth didn’t hesitate in asking her to aid the Grey Wardens. Although the Blight was over, it would one day come again and they needed to be prepared for anything. Already there had been inquiries from the Orlesian Wardens about her survival; something she quickly delegated to Alistair.

“Just tell them us dwarves are clearly made of sterner stuff, that’ll get them to shut up.”

So maybe Lisbeth was getting a little irritated with how many people wanted a piece of her: She’d just spent most of a day comatose and the pain poultices were wearing off. Alistair took no offense and chuckled, placing both hands on her shoulders before pulling her into his chest.

“That you certainly are, love. I’ll just stand there and look dumb – works every time. Soon they’ll get bored of asking and by then we’ll be on our merry way.”

She can picture it now, “No nosey nobles, no gangs of darkspawn… just us and the great wilderness. Can we leave now?”

“If I had my way we’d be barricaded in my room right now, but alas you are a very popular woman. I suppose we’ll have to wait for our self-imposed isolation.”

“Bullocks.”

He stifles his laughter in her hair, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead before letting her go. “The sooner you meet the people the sooner we can be alone you know.”

Determined, she jerks her head sharply and spins on her heel until she’s facing the line of people waiting to speak with her. Alistair’s snickers follow her to the foot of the throne where Gorim stands, hands clasped behind his back and eyes alight with pride.

“My lady,” he begins, “I come with news from Orzammar.”

Initially, Lisbeth is stunned at his declaration: Being invited back into a house after being struck from the record never happens. It’s tempting for about half a second until her eyes skim around the hallway and she sees the faces of her friends. Even if she went back, it would never be for good and she tells him thus.

“My place is here now Gorim.”

“Aye, I figured as much.”

She holds up a hand to belay what he plans to say next, “I will return in order to name you as head of the household. I know you’ll carry our House far and there is no one I trust with such a task.”

“My lady!” he protests, but lets her continue.

“I can’t stop them from making me a Paragon, and I won’t lie it’s a high honor. However I cannot stay beneath the mountain for long when the Grey Wardens need me. We’ll depart in two days’ time. I hope that’s long enough for you to break the news to your wife about her sudden nobility.”

His hands are trembling when she reaches out to solidify her promise.

“I will always be your man, my Lady.”

She lets him go speak to his family who watch with wide eyes when she smiles at them. Soon she finds herself speaking with Wynne and wishing her friend well in her travels. Shale mentions the possibility of stopping in Orzammar if time permits.

“I suspect your statue will be there to greet us, Paragon.”

“Word travels fast huh?” Lisbeth sighs in dismay.

“They’d be fools not to offer you the title.”

Touched, Lisbeth wanders over to Leliana and Zevran both of whom have very different plans. The breaking of her fellowship tugs at her heartstrings, but she doesn’t cry when Leliana speaks of returning to Orlais. However she does poke and prod until Zevran agrees to stick around, though he has no desire to undergo the Grey Warden rite. She can’t say she’s blames him all things considered.

After all the time spent attempting to forge a friendship with Sten, his Qunari words still throw her for a loop. There is no mistaking the respect in his tone however and she briefly wonders if they were found facing each other on the battlefield if she could fight him. When Oghren calls her over, Lisbeth crosses her arms across her chest and inclines her head in hopes that Sten recognizes what she doesn’t know how say.

His eyes understand.

Turning his attention from the women who flank him, Oghren gets to the point. She doesn’t blame him for not wanting to return – though he’s quick to congratulate her on the title of Paragon. They don’t talk about Branka, but she can see he’s still coddling that wound. She can picture him as a Warden and says as much when he floats the idea of staying topside.

“I can’t imagine you and the boy want me taggin’ along; I’ll try my luck with Felsi, get in her good graces while you two sow yer wild oats.”

His drunk giggling dissolves her scowl and she leaves him to his questionable entourage to face the crowd of people she can hear chanting outside the castle walls.

The guard’s smile is sympathetic when he takes in her wrinkled brow, “It’s a bit much I’m sure, but you’ve earned it Warden.”

He pushes the doors open and the sun streams through the widening crack until is hits her eyes just right. The chanting gets louder and louder but instead of trepidation, Lisbeth feels a rush of adrenaline. She stands tall and lifts a hand to the mass of people gathered. It reminds her of the Proving except she’s already fought the good fight and all that’s left to do is stand and breathe.

Alistair hovers in the doorway with Oghren and Wynne; watching her react to the outpouring of gratitude and respect she had commanded once among her people. Below are all walks of life; united beneath one woman who nearly died several times to keep Ferelden safe.

‘ _Can you see me mother? Father?_ ’ she wonders in awe at the sea of elves and men. Children sit on shoulders and thrust wooden swords in the air to honor their newest hero. There are familiar faces beaming upwards, the remains of the force she had gathered while uniting the land. It is almost too much for her to bear. They want her to say something: They call for a speech after minutes of her dazed waving.

Lisbeth flounders, but eventually gathers her wits long enough once the assembly settles.

“I could not have done this alone,” she begins and the others slowly come into the light, forming a crescent behind her though not out of sight to those gathered below. Lisbeth feels the absence of Morrigan’s presence keenly, but forges on.

“These next months will be tough – there is much to rebuild and many to mourn. I have seen the greatness of those I would have never imagined fighting beside. You followed me and bled with me and today we stand victorious!”

The cheers are deafening.

“Look around you; look at who stands beside you. Mothers and fathers who have lost children, brothers and sisters who have lost homes – the Blight took from all of you but also gave you a chance you cannot ignore.”

Lisbeth had seen the best and worst the surface had to offer; mages terrified and hopeless, elves twisted and abused – her own people turning on each other, not needing help from men.

“I am just one person, one dwarf who was in the right place at the right time,” she chuckles darkly, “but the opportunities you all have to rebuild not just your homes, but your perceptions of those who share this land are historic.”

The weight of the so many eyes emboldens her tongue, “Together you suffered and together you can recover, not as separate people but as one country! This Blight showed me that there is more that ties us together than could ever tear us apart. I am more than a Paragon of Orzammar – I am a citizen of Ferelden and I will always defend her people!”

Speech done, she lets her words soak into the foundation and hopes they’ll grow in the future. Alistair stands honored beside her; clapping and whistling with the others until all she can hear is their voices rising as one singular declaration. She won’t know it until much later, but her words will travel far beyond the borders of Ferelden and be borrowed in speeches made by all walks of life.

“What do you say we get out of here? Start a revolution all our own?” Alistair’s breath sends goosebumps racing down her neck to the base of her spine.

Flushed, she bows quickly to her adoring public and drags him past the guards and up the stairs to their private quarters. Her companion’s amusement follows them to the door, which she slams shut and orders Gimli to guard through muffled kisses and shaky exhales.

“Maker have mercy,” Alistair whines when she falls to her knees: There are no more inspiring orations that night.

 True to her word, they leave two days later – a raven sent ahead to Harrowmont alerting him of their impending arrival. Anora’s parting words, or rather orders, revolve around an arling to the north that Lisbeth is meant to take under her wing in the coming months. Wardens from Orlais will meet her in time to gather and train new recruits. Enrollment will be down due to the lack of a Blight, but she’s confident in her recruiting skills. They make a pretty good dent in their journey, debating briefly whether they want to stop at Soldier’s Peak or push forward and pitch a tent a ways from the road.

Alistair pitches their tent, Lisbeth tends the fire and Gimli chases local wildlife from their space until he plops down, exhausted and satisfied. Dinner is a quiet affair, both of them reveling in each other’s company without impending doom breathing down their necks. The stars pulse above them and Lisbeth brushes up on the lessons she’d been taught during their journey.

“And that one right there,” Alistair points towards a cluster just south of the Guiding Star, “is the Hero of Ferelden. I hear she slayed the Archdemon and saved the bastard Prince from certain death – all with one hand tied behind her back.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she huffs attempting to hide her pleased smile behind her bowl.

“And what – pray tell – my lady does that make you since you’re willing to put up with my company?”

Alistair cocks his head, nose in the air, pretending to be offended and failing hilariously since his lips won’t stay straight. She pretends to think about it for a minute, placing her bowl on the ground and turning to look at him stone-faced and serious.

“Extraordinarily lucky.”

Barely able to enjoy the look of fondness that overtakes his face, Lisbeth falls into Alistair’s arms without hesitation when he pulls and their lips slot together perfectly. The world fades into the background along with the nagging suspension in the back of Lisbeth’s mind that sounds a lot like her mother, warning her of complacency. She doesn’t want to think about the journey ahead.

Alistair proves to be a great distraction and as they curl together, sweaty and satisfied, Lisbeth declares silently to the world that she would not go quietly into the night. Whatever comes next, be it darkspawn, dragons, or rips in the very fabric of reality they know, will fall before her every single time. She had finally found her home and would keep him with her always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was fun.


End file.
